


late bloomers

by CopperCaravan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Codename: Tens, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:30:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon and Tens (fSole) both have 'dead marks.' Until she leaves the Vault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	late bloomers

**Author's Note:**

> Just another drop in the ocean that is soulmate marks fic but I needed some Deacon so I wrote some.

The thing was, Tens had never really thought to mourn the marks. A ‘soul mate’ (whatever that actually meant) was a luxury that people like her—all four of them—couldn’t afford. She didn’t remember when exactly she’d first noticed them, two short black lines between her shoulder blades—dead marks, they were called. She knew that, though where from, she wasn’t sure. That didn’t much matter either, really.

She loved people all the same. A few of them, anyway; four of them.

And she was lucky, she supposed, that they were on her back, where she could forget about them altogether. There was little point to seeing them, after all. There was a reason they were called dead marks.

-

Deacon, too, had dead marks: two short lines between his shoulder blades, black as black could get.

And Deacon, too, was grateful that they weren’t easily visible. Who wants to see them every day and know they’ll always be alone? That they’d, quite literally, _missed the mark_ this time around? That there _was_ someone, somewhere, and now they were gone, before they’d even met? Much easier just to lie, because no else could see them either.

_Where are your marks?_

“On my feet, obviously.”

“Armpit. Sorry, no peeking.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

And then, there was someone. He fought off looking for ages, but it finally got the better of him. Dead marks. Didn’t make a difference, not really: they were in love. They _were._ And then...

-

She’d lived her whole life with those marks. Hadn’t thought to really look at them for years, hardly even paid attention to them when she glimpsed them in the mirror or the bath or when Nate said something about them in bed.

They were dead marks. What did it matter?

So when Tens stepped out of the Vault, she never thought to even check. When she met him—again and again and again and once more—she never thought to check.

-

Deacon didn’t check either, not after...

No point. Hadn’t been any point before that, certainly wasn’t any point now.

And then one night, in a shack by the highway, Tens starting throwing off her clothes.

“Don’t be shy,” he said.

“I won’t.”

But really it was just a quick bath, just a bottle of water poured over travel-dusted skin. And then she swept her hair aside and there they were: two short lines between her shoulder blades, white as a light in the dark.

“You—”

She stopped, looked at him over her shoulder, waited. “What?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

But he knew. And they still had a long road ahead.


End file.
